


Let Me Feed Your Appetite

by sinigmas (jaystrifes)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bill Cipher Being Bill Cipher, Bill Cipher's misguided notions about human courtship and love, Blood Drinking, Immortality and Existential Dread, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mild Gore, Murder fantasies? But more like the kinky kind?, No Actual Character Death, Outdoor Sex, Somewhat established relationship, Vampire Dipper Pines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-09 21:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16457579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaystrifes/pseuds/sinigmas
Summary: A recently turned vampire, Dipper faces angst over his newfound immortality and bloodlust. Luckily, Bill knows a little something about both. He got Dipper into this mess, so it's only fair that he lend a helping hand, in more ways than one.





	Let Me Feed Your Appetite

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-T6cCmv6e8) song.

It’s surprising how long it takes for Dipper’s loved ones to realize there’s something off about him.

Granted, he keeps it under wraps for as long as he can. Even as the midsummer heat reaches sweltering heights, he wears the sleeves of his flannel shirts rolled down and chooses jeans over shorts in order to cover up as much as possible.

One morning, Dipper oversleeps after Mabel has already left for the day to hang out with her friends. When he wakes to sunlight pouring in through the window, he’s struck by an unbearable bout of nausea. It feels like a Herculean feat to get up and draw the curtain shut, and after he’s accomplished his labor, he collapses on the bed and shuts his eyes and lays there trembling in the dark until the urge to projectile vomit subsides.

At least the incident confirms the sun will only cause him extreme discomfort, rather than immediate combustion like he’s seen in pretty much every vampire movie ever.

Grunkle Stan ribs him about how he looks more like sleep-deprived and zombie-like than usual. Dipper takes to borrowing some of Mabel’s foundation for his suddenly unhealthily pale skin, even though it’s a real pain in the ass to put on. The mirror won’t help him either way, and he avoids it on the off chance that Mabel walks in and notices his lack of a reflection.

He continues to eat the garlic toast Stan makes for dinner sometimes, even though afterwards he has to sit in the bathroom for a long time, sweating and breaking out in hives while his stomach grumbles with distinctly unhappy and mildly concerning noises. He just counts himself lucky that Stan’s not a religious man—just the other day, Dipper turned down Soos’s offer to come over for video games and pizza because he remembered Soos’s Abuelita has crucifixes galore in that house.

The side-effects of vampirism aren’t only physical aversions. Dipper lays awake at night long after his twin has gone off to dream land and obsesses over the thought that she is going to grow old while he remains the same, unchanging, forever. He can’t even bring himself to laugh at the irony. It’s all he can do to keep from spiraling into despair as the truth sinks in, more and more every day.

Everyone he loves will gain wrinkles and gray hairs and one day die, and he’ll still be the way he is, 19 years old and frozen in time forever. If he ever wants to join them in the grave, he’ll probably have to drive a stake through his own chest.

And it’s all Bill’s fault. Dipper regrets agreeing to go with him that night. He regrets ever meeting that damned demon, period.

It’s never been hard to forget that Bill Cipher is a super-dimensional nightmare wearing a man’s face like a mask, but oftentimes it’s hard to really be alarmed by him. It helps that the face in question is a handsome one, and that Bill has his own endearing, if somewhat skewed, sense of thoughtfulness. He leaves Dipper presents in the form of deadly weapons (“For self-defense! Or, you know, murder!” he says, with equal enthusiasm on both fronts), or bones and teeth (some unfortunately not of animal origin).

Occasionally, he’ll get it right and find something Dipper actually wants, like an interesting book or a shiny rock with magical properties, but Dipper never throws away the less desirable gifts, either. Sure, Bill’s concept of Dipper’s taste is…questionable, at best, but Dipper appreciates his efforts nonetheless.

For a long time, it all seemed so innocent. He was learning so much from Bill about the secrets of Gravity Falls, about the flora and fauna that inhabit the woods, about the magic that runs deep in this place’s veins, from the waterfalls to the trees. They often set out on long walks to explore as far as their legs could take them — or, sometimes, as far as Bill’s powers of flight could take them. All Bill ever required in return was Dipper’s company, and his tolerance for Bill’s occasional homicidal tendencies and invariably twisted humor.

Even when darkness fell and strange things began to howl in the distance, Dipper had the best bodyguard he could ask for, the monster at the top of the food chain, the demon with a smile as sharp as a knife and instincts as quick as a whip.

Which makes it suspicious, then, that Bill hadn’t been fast enough to kill the starving vampire they stumbled across at the edge of town on a moonless night, that he had reacted only seconds too late to prevent Dipper from being bitten, and that he didn’t stop Dipper from effectively turning himself by ingesting the creature’s blood.

When he did retaliate, it was with the vengeful fury of an archangel, hands blazing with blue fire and pupil narrowed to barely more than a sliver in his glowing red eye. Dipper had never seen him so angry, so fiercely possessive. Bill had snarled in a warped, completely otherworldly voice, “Hands off, he’s fucking _mine_ ,” proceeded to rip the vampire’s body open from the inside out, and tore it limb from limb with far too vicious satisfaction. It screamed the whole time, until Bill finally extracted its heart from the messy pulp of its chest and stabbed it with a silver blade.

Even so, it was too late. The double-pinpoint of a fanged bite already marked Dipper’s skin and, drawn by some new internal compass he couldn’t control, he sank his teeth into what remained of a hand that had flown his way in the midst of the carnage. Maybe Bill was still busy torturing his victim, but he couldn’t have been so distracted he didn’t notice Dipper making a grave mistake. It seemed almost like he waited to kill the vampire until the moment Dipper finished drinking from its severed wrist.

He shudders, the bitterly metallic taste of blood and the rubbery texture of flesh still lingering in his mouth even though it's been days since the incident. Everything after that point became blessedly hazy, but he vaguely remembers a gentle hand on his cheek, a thumb wiping blood from his chin, and being lifted and carried bridal style. The next morning, he woke up safe in his own bed.

Dipper knows he didn’t make the conscious decision to bite the vampire after it bit him; he’s scribbled countless theories on the matter in the margins of his notebooks. The most sound one is that it was some progenitory mechanism triggered by vampires in the event of near or certain death. If a vampire is dying, the living, bitten victim unknowingly receives some kind of signal that prompts them to bite the vampire in turn and carry on its ‘lineage’.

That’s one mystery solved, potentially. To get the answers he really wants, Dipper would have to ask Bill exactly what happened back there, and why. Right now, he’d rather impale himself on a wooden stake, or maybe impale Bill on a wooden stake, though he doubts that would really do anything to the demon.

In the back of his mind, he instead considers showing Bill what it feels like to be bitten, that split second of primal terror gradually numbed over, the feeling of utter weakness as a monster starts to drain you of the thing you need to live. Then his mind strays to biting more than once, and biting all over, and Bill arching into the pain with a moan because _of course he would_ , and yeah, Dipper has to shut down that train of thought right there before it goes even farther off the rails and he completely forgets that he’s supposed to be mad about this whole vampire thing.

He shakes his head to clear it and absentmindedly feels along his teeth with the tips of his thumb and forefinger. They still feel like regular human teeth (he supposes he can be extra certain of that, thanks to the nearly full sets Bill has collected for him), but his gums are tingling. Weird.

Dipper has a feeling he’s about to have a lot more to worry about. He’ll deal with Bill later.

__

For the first two weeks, it seems like his deepening existential dread will be the worst of his problems as a child of the night, and that maybe over time he’ll learn to live with it. He does have eternity to think about it, after all.

Then there’s a yawning void of a different sort. Dipper doesn’t understand it right away. It’s like someone carved a hole through his gut, like there’s an empty space where his insides should be. He eats, but that doesn’t satisfy it.

His fangs finally make their first appearance around that time. Aside from a vague and barely noticeable change towards a more candy corn shape, his canines have remained mostly the same since his turning. They don’t abruptly sharpen or elongate now. Instead, it’s as if his fangs are separate teeth that mold themselves around his normal canines, like some kind of casing.

It happens in the middle of eating dinner, with both Grunkle Stan and Mabel present at the table, no less. They’re having steak, and because Stan is a man who lacks a healthy fear of E. coli, it’s basically undercooked, even though he claims it’s medium rare and that he’d serve it in any restaurant. Ordinarily, Dipper might have protested, but today he digs in like a famished coyote. The red juices pooling under the steak with each cut of his knife makes his mouth water in a way it never has before. He hardly even _likes_ meat. Or at least, he didn’t until now.

He’s just finished chewing his second bite when he feels something weird in his mouth. At first he thinks he has something stuck between his teeth, so he probes at it with his tongue, only to receive a sharp prick for his trouble. Despite his caution as he runs his tongue over the row of bottom teeth, it gets sliced again, and the tang of his own blood bursts on his tastebuds. Things start to click into place.

Covering his mouth with one hand, Dipper stands and mumbles to excuse himself to the bathroom. Behind him, he hears Mabel wonder aloud if he’s finally caught that salmon-vanilla disease he’s always so worried about, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to correct her.

He locks the door and leans back against it, poking at his teeth gingerly with his fingers. The addition of the fangs makes his canines bigger, and they narrow to needle-sharp points. He bites experimentally, testing them out to feel how they slot together, top and bottom. Perfect for puncturing. Dipper traces his new teeth with his tongue, careful not to cut it on them this time.

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself. He could tear a throat out with these if he isn’t careful.

To his horror, the thought fills him with yearning rather than revulsion. Dipper shakes it away resolutely. He will _not_ be biting anyone, or anything, except maybe that steak and possibly any other raw, bloody meat he can find in the fridge as a midnight snack.

Returning to the table, he realizes he must have been gone longer than he thought, because Mabel and Grunkle Stan have both already finished their food and moved to the living room to watch Ducktective. At least, with that, he’s able to eat in peace, without worrying about them catching a glimpse of his teeth.

Now he understands that feeling, that gnawing thing in his stomach. Hunger, but a hunger for blood, not food. Well, duh. It shouldn’t have been that hard to figure out. It begs the question, however, of a long-term solution. How long can a vampire subsist on cold, less than fresh animal blood?

The answer is, apparently, not long.

Thankfully, Dipper’s fangs retract a while after he’s finished his meal. Even after eaten for seconds (and furtively cleaning the blood from his plate with his tongue), he still isn’t full. This has probably been building since the beginning, so it seems safe to estimate that he can go, at most, half a month before he starts to feel his hunger. If he had a consistent supply, he could likely drink only a small amount of blood every day and go on feeling fine for longer periods of time.

For right now, this will be enough to tide him over, surely.

Dipper joins his family in the living room. Mabel stole his usual perch on Grunkle Stan’s armchair. They’ve grown too big for both of them to share it like they used to as kids, so he takes a seat on the floor next to Waddles and pretends not to notice Mabel making tiny braids in his hair. Stan belches loudly and they all share a laugh.

For a little while, it’s like everything is normal.

Then he starts to think about eating Waddles. Not eating him, per se, but feeding off of him. Without even trying to, Dipper can smell his blood. His stomach rumbles. Waddles oinks innocently, earning himself some doting head scratches from Mabel during the commercial break.

Dipper thinks of how hurt, no, devastated Mabel would be if he accidentally killed her pet pig. That’s enough to turn his conscious attention away from the idea, but some new predatory instinct lingers deep inside, a spark waiting to be fanned into a flame.

He could confess right now. Maybe if he told Mabel and Stan the truth, they could help him. He wouldn’t have to go through this alone. But the possibility of seeing their faces written with disgust and fear, with hatred, is a risk Dipper isn’t willing to take.

“I think I’m gonna turn in for the night,” he says abruptly, giving Waddles one quick pat on the head before he stands.

Mabel and Stan watch him go with equally befuddled looks. As he’s climbing the stairs, Dipper hears Stan say, “Wonder what’s with him lately?”

__

Sleep hasn’t come easily for a while now, and when it does, it’s not a restful sleep, but one filled with disturbing dreams that only serve to amplify his hunger.

In the latest nightmare, Dipper’s in the woods, hunting an animal, moving silently and preparing to sneak up on it. No weapons, just his wit and his fangs. He has to be quick to pin it down and find a major artery before it can get away.

When he springs and tackles it to the ground, hands around its neck, he finds a human face staring back at him. He pauses for only a fleeting, startled second before he yanks the head back to expose the throat and digs his fangs in, all self-restraint and morality abandoned. He drinks and drinks and drinks until he’s satisfied, and even then, greed pushes him to drink more, to lick every last splatter of blood from his victim’s skin and from his own fingers. It’s still smeared on his face, sticky and hot, as he finally sits back and lets go of the body.

Dipper’s gaze falls on something in the distance. A corpse, already dressed for its funeral in a black suit, the white collar popped open, a gold chain around the neck. Realization hits him like a freight train. It’s Stan.

And beyond him, there’s another limp figure sprawled in the grass, one wearing a fuzzy pink sweater. If he focuses his eyes, he can see her far-away face. _Mabel_.

Dream Dipper doesn’t react with the same terror and disgust and self-loathing that he might if he were awake. He simply blinks once and accepts that it was always going to come to this.

So then who’s this third person? He leans over the dead body to get a look at the face, and finds out they’re not so dead after all. One eye stares back at him, with a blue fire burning in the iris that’s normally gold. The other eye isn’t an eye, but a triangular black void.

A smile spreads across Bill’s lips. Dipper feels himself smile, too, a too-wide and too-crazed grin, before he lowers his head for another taste.

He wakes with a breathless cry to the feeling of his fangs scraping the insides of his lips and to the weirdest boner he’s ever had in his life. A cold sweat clings to his back, plastering his pajama shirt to his skin even when he sits up to get away from the clammy sheets. He looks around in a panic; thankfully Mabel isn’t in the room to see him like this. It’s already mid-morning, judging by the stuffy warmth of the sun coming through the curtain.

Dipper puts his face in his hands. The images of the bodies linger on the back of his eyelids. That should be enough to kill the mood, right?

Wrong. The sickening twist of arousal in his gut seems to have inextricably tangled itself with the raw burn of hunger. It's not the sight of his family that keeps imposing itself on his mind, but Bill. Bill with his smooth brown skin marked by the collar of red that sprayed out when Dipper bit him in the dream, Bill with that look on his face, that sneaky smile, like a vampire feasting on his blood was something he wanted all along.

Dipper starts to reach a hand into his boxers, then stops himself, shame heating his face up to the tips of his ears. He is not going to touch himself while fantasizing about a good _meal_.

Maybe a shower will help. He feels faint as soon as he stands, and has to grab onto the bedpost to keep from falling over. Edging along the wall for support, he makes it to the bathroom across the hallway and locks himself in. He splashes water on his face in the sink first, and when that does little to help, he turns the shower on full blast and steps under.

Even with the spray freezing cold and pelting his back like bullets, it fails to persuade his dick to soften. Dipper sighs. He’ll just have to take care of it with a hands-on approach. Literally.

Fangs still getting in the way as he grinds his teeth, he presses his back to the tiled wall and grips himself firmly. As soon as he closes his eyes, his mind wanders back to Bill. It's irritating, but when the alternative is indulging his new vampire instincts, even only in his head, Dipper would prefer this. Better normal lust, no matter how humiliating, than bloodlust.

It's not the first time he's thought about Bill like this, anyways. Almost since their first meeting in the forest, their first after-evening stroll, Bill has been — flirtatious, to say the least. Dipper wisely tried to stay on guard, to remind himself that it was a _demon_ he was dealing with, but he’s grown weaker to Bill’s advances than he’d like to admit.

Bill just has too many weapons in his arsenal for Dipper to possibly fend off all of them: the snarky, charismatic grin that stretches his face just a little too wide; the snappy, if obnoxious, yellow suit that perfectly fits his tall, elegant frame; his voice, off-pitch and completely smooth in a delightful contrast; his laugh, maniacal cackling and all; his lack of qualms regarding personal space, leading to a hand always tugging on Dipper’s arm, a breath always brushing warmly against his ear.

The turning incident rekindled Dipper’s doubt that he could ever safely trust Bill, made him remember why he shouldn't want anything to do with the guy, and yet here he is, moaning in the shower as he imagines Bill’s hand stroking him instead of his own.

He thinks about the one, singular time they kissed, after Bill saved him from a nest of writhing vines that had been trying to deliver Dipper to the carnivorous mouth of a mega-flora species. Dipper felt a bit like a damsel in distress, but with a sense of overwhelming relief to be flown away to freedom in Bill’s arms, and there had been something in the way Bill looked at him, a mixture of concern and triumph and intense protectiveness.

When they touched down on the ground Dipper forgot all about how a demon taking such interest in him meant nothing but trouble. He fell forward into Bill’s chest and mashed their lips together without a single care for the consequences.

Dipper’s enthusiasm in that kiss was one of the few things he had ever seen Bill slightly surprised by. It had to be a pleasant kind of surprise, because Bill’s hands found the small of his back immediately and pulled the two of them flush together. His tongue slid into Dipper’s mouth like he was laying claim to it, and in that moment it was the only thing in the world that mattered. Dipper couldn’t seem to stop, leaning fully on Bill and kissing him like his life depended on it, until breathlessness made him light-headed and dizzy. It was all worth it, just for that look of wonder and unmistakable fondness on Bill’s face.

Even after the heat of first contact subsided, Bill practically had to peel Dipper off of him. With his mind in such a state, Dipper gladly would have let Bill take him right there against a tree or in the grass or anywhere he fucking wanted. Instead, Bill murmured that Dipper probably needed to get home before anyone started to worry. He walked him there with an arm around his waist, and Dipper blushed all the way to the Mystery Shack and went to sleep feeling warm all over.

As he replays the night in his head, though, Bill doesn’t stop him. They keep going, kissing feverishly, hands exploring under clothes. Bill finds his way into Dipper’s pants and makes some simultaneously corny and salacious remark (“Is that a pine tree in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”) and Dipper pretends to be embarrassed by it even when he's so ready for Bill’s touch. His whole body is flushed hot enough that he doesn't complain at all as Bill lays him out and strips him down to bare skin. It makes him feel so vulnerable, but here he doesn't mind, here he’s happy to be owned, touched, wanted.

Bill’s teeth drag across Dipper’s collarbone and nip at his neck and he kisses his way down Dipper’s chest, abdomen, _lower, please_ , _yes,_ finally. Bill’s tongue lapping over the head of his cock and running down the length of it, two long licks before he takes Dipper all the way in his mouth, hollows his cheeks and sucks slowly at first, then more vigorously. Dipper can't help himself, curls his fingers into fists in Bill’s hair, and Bill looks up at him with a dangerous flash of blue in his eye.

That’s all it takes. Come paints his skin in white streaks and dribbles over his fist, and his legs tremble and then give out under the weight of pleasure. Dipper slides down the wall to sit in the tub, shaking. The hard, cold spray of water washes away the physical evidence, but there’s a lingering filthiness inside that he couldn’t scrub away if he tried.

Crying after jerking off in the shower is a more familiar routine than he’d like to admit, but crying blood is new. It splashes onto the backs of his thighs, waters down to pink before it runs circles the drain. Dipper wipes at the tear duct at the corner of his eye with one finger, just to confirm that is where the it’s coming from. His fangs ache at the sight. It seems like such a waste when he has so little to spare, when he’s so starved for it already.

He sniffs hard and forces himself to stop so he won’t lose more blood, but the hollow feeling of disgust in his chest persists. This runs deeper, hurts not just from guilt over what he did or who he was thinking about.

Maybe it’s because it’s been a little while — he hasn’t taken the time to touch himself like this since before he turned. Maybe it’s because it’s a gut-wrenching reminder of just how much he liked Bill, _still_ likes Bill after everything. Dipper misses him and his infuriatingly smug grins and his terrible humor and his occasional moments of tenderness.

He also misses how Bill always “forgot” to hide the red stains on his gloves, on the cuffs of his awful yellow coat, even on his face. He misses the flippant dismissals, the macabre jokes, the half-serious insinuations that murder’s okay if it’s what Bill has to do to collect his payments.

Dipper inhales sharply, feeling like a dagger’s been driven through his gut. Bill’s stab-happy nature had never been a factor that drew Dipper to him before, but now? _Fuck._ Surely he wouldn’t mind Dipper feeding off of whatever poor sucker made a deal with him and couldn’t pay up, Dipper could have the blood and Bill could have the soul, wouldn’t that be a mutually beneficial arrangement? He’s willing to bet Bill would be into that, that seeing blood running down Dipper’s chin would excite him like nothing else.

It’s a good thing Dipper has already gotten off, because although the thought equally excites him now in ways it really, really shouldn’t, he’s too tired to go for another round. Barely finding the strength to reach up and turn the shower off, he rests his forehead on one knee and lets his soaked hair drip around his face, chewing his lip and thinking.

__

After another day, the fear that Dipper would outlive all his loved ones seems like the silliest thing in the world. That’s clearly not going to happen if he lets himself starve to death like this. He briefly contemplates hunting, but no matter how the whole vampire thing has reshuffled his priorities and tastes, he doesn’t think he’d be successful in the state he’s in. Not without help.

He hasn’t even managed to crawl out of bed all day. Stan comes in to check on him at lunch, and Dipper’s fangs creep in over his canines every time he smells the tantalizing promise in his grunkle’s veins. (It _really_ grosses him out to have that sentence in his brain, but it won’t go away.) He insists he’s not hungry, but takes the glass of water offered to him more for Stan’s sake than his own. Dipper drinks it once Stan leaves the room, but his throat remains dry and parched.

Evening settles as Dipper lies there, almost too weak to realize how much time has passed. He blurs in and out of consciousness, only really stirring when he hears Mabel come into the room, already dressed in her star-patterned nightgown. She takes a seat on the edge of his bed and touches his forehead, checking for fever. Dipper hadn’t noticed how cold his body had become until he feels her temperature from her hand, soft and warm with the blood beneath the skin. He guesses this is one of the differences between the living and the undead.

Concern is written all over her face when he looks up at her, bleary-eyed.

Dipper fights to suppress the thought of how easy it would be to grab her wrist and drink his fill.

Thankfully she moves her hand out of the path of his mouth, twining her fingers with his instead. “Summer cold, huh?” she asks sympathetically.

Dipper rasps out a laugh. Oh how he wishes that were all it was. “Yeah, something. Maybe rest will help.”

Mabel nods and kisses his forehead the way their mom always did when they were younger and sick in bed. All Dipper can think is how close her throat is, how he can hear her steady pulse in her carotid artery.

She goes over to get in her own bed, and Dipper rolls onto his side, facing the wall, and curls up. As lanky as he is, it’s not as easy to make himself small as it was when he was little. Mabel’s phone buzzes occasionally, and he figures she must be texting goodnights to her friends. When he hears her put it down, he turns back to face her, no longer at risk of being nauseated by the harsh white light.

He finds her looking at him from across the room, a reflection with her cheek resting against her pillow and her long hair splayed across it.

“Remember we always used to have staring contests like this at home when we couldn’t fall asleep? Before we got our own bedrooms?”

Dipper smiles weakly. “Yeah, I remember. If I fell asleep before you, you’d pelt me with the stuffed animals you kept on your bed until I woke up so we could keep going. I always had to wait until you got too tired to hold your eyes open.”

“Haha, yeah. Hard to believe it’s been so long since we were so little.”

It is hard to believe. They’ve both taken a gap year before college; Mabel will be off to art school in California this fall, while Dipper’s not so sure about his academic future, funnily enough. Even before this vampire problem, he had his heart set on staying in Gravity Falls, and there aren’t exactly any fancy universities in the neighborhood.

It is also hard to think, period. His brain works at the pace of a particularly sluggish snail. He’s finally about to say something when a hunger pang hits him and his whole body jerks inadvertently. Mabel raises up on her elbow, eyebrows furrowed.

“You okay over there, bro bro?”

“I’m fine,” he manages to say, trying not to grit his teeth against the pain. “Muscle spasm or something.”

Mabel settles down, flipping all of her hair over onto one side and leaving her neck exposed. Dipper turns over onto his back to gaze up at the ceiling instead, but it’s no good. He’s hyper-aware of her again, of the red current swimming in her, mouth-wateringly fresh. If he told her everything, if he just asked her, she would let him drink from her, wouldn’t she?

Dipper scratches the thought out, leaves giant X’s all over it in red sharpie. He won’t take the chance of hurting her. Mabel is his twin, his best friend, the one person in the world he can’t stand to live without.

“Guess our staring contest is over?”

“You win this time, Mabes.”

“You bet I do!”

She rolls over a few times before she finds a comfortable position, and then her breathing evens out into the peace of sleep. Eventually, Dipper drifts off into a fitful unconsciousness of his own.

When awareness strikes him again, he’s on the other side of the room with no memory of how he got there. Mabel’s sleeping back is to him, her nightgown draped loosely on her shoulder. Still half in the fog of sleep, Dipper starts to lean down, overwhelmed with the scent of her blood, with the knowledge that there is only that weak fleshy layer separating him from it, and he’s so hungry his stomach is withering.

Then the scent of her coconut shampoo very briefly drowns out the _sweetfreshred_ assaulting his taste buds through his half-open mouth, and he jerks away, shocked into full wakefulness. The duality of instinct and conscious thought is too much at once and Dipper bites his own hand in a fit of maddened indecision.

With a choked whine, he stumbles backwards and sits down hard on the floor, his back hitting the frame of his bed. Mabel must hear the thump of his landing, because she stirs. Shit. Dipper has to leave, now, he can’t let her see him, he can’t face what he was about to do, he can’t believe what a _monster_ he’s becoming. He scrambles for the door, staggering off-kilter, just as she sits up and says,

“Dipper?”

“Bathroom,” he answers hoarsely, fangs causing him to slur the word, but it’s enough to get Mabel to lie down again. She probably won’t remember this in the morning.

If he’s still around by then.

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know whatcha thought. Tune in next time for gratuitous smut and Dipper finally getting a good meal (hint: it's Bill).


End file.
